


Requisition for a New Chair

by Amuly



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Prompt Fic, but no actual self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt on my <a href="http://everybodyilovedies.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>: Clint develops a 'papercut problem', because Coulson holds his hands while he disinfects and then band-aids the battle wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requisition for a New Chair

**Author's Note:**

> There is no actual self-harm in this story, or even past self-harm (besides what is outlined in the prompt), but Phil THINKS there MIGHT be a self-harm thing going on. Just to make that clear!

Phil stared at the spreadsheet on his desktop, flipping through the separate sheets - ten - rapidly, hoping that a pattern would emerge. Each recording of an “incident” was paired with anything Phil could think of: missions gone south, missions gone well, shots fired, ratio of hit-to-miss, ratio of  _others'_ hit-to-miss, dead SHIELD operatives, dead enemy operatives, kill shots, wound shots, MIA…

Phil frowned deeply at the glowing monitor, as if it had done something to deeply offend him. Well, it had failed to show him any pattern in Barton’s actions, and that was deeply offensive. And worrisome. There had to be a pattern - Phil just wasn’t seeing it. Until he could find it, he couldn’t take action against it. If he couldn’t take action against it, it would continue, and… Phil felt a stirring of something that might have been panic in his chest. If he couldn’t  _fix_ whatever this was, it might escalate, and something might happen to Barton. That was unacceptable.

Three short knocks at his door snapped Phil out of his melancholy reverie. Knowing those knocks, Phil minimized the spreadsheets and pulled up a random requisition form on the monitor before answering. “Come in,” he finally called out.

There was the sound of faint laughter even before the door opened. When it did, it revealed a grinning, somewhat rumpled Clint Barton, as Phil knew it would. “Took a while there, Coulson,” Barton teased. “Hiding something? Having a little ‘personal time’?”

Phil rolled his eyes and shot Barton his most bland look. “Honestly Barton, you should know better than to say things like that with the door open. Think if one of the greenies heard.”

Barton fake-gasped as he swaggered his way over to Phil’s desk, door clicking shut behind him. Phil let his eyes casually drift back to his computer screen and the requisition forms he had hastily pulled up. It wouldn’t do to be caught eyeing the way Barton’s thighs flexed in the SHIELD-issued sweatpants he was strutting around in. 

“But then they wouldn’t think you were an android anymore!” Barton said.

“Exactly.”

Without any further preamble Barton tossed himself onto Phil’s desk, crossing his legs on top of papers and generally making a mess of things. Phil sighed audibly, if only to avoid swallowing at the sudden proximity of his face and Barton’s groin. It was always so much worse, in these kinds of settings: settings that weren’t out in the field, under fire; settings that were private and calm and somehow terrifyingly intimate. 

Barton’s finger was in Phil’s face before he could let that train of thought go any further, waggling around too fast for Phil’s eyes to get a good lock on it. “Another one. Fix me up, handler.”

Oh. Phil’s eyes did  _not_  flick to desktop monitor, where the spreadsheet recording such “incidents” was firmly minimized. No, his eyes remained firmly on Barton’s finger for two seconds, then tracked up to Barton’s face in a carefully arranged look of exasperation. Because it was uncouth of Phil to be so worried over something so stupid.

“Another one?” His tone sounded suitably annoyed.

Barton shrugged: easy, casual. “I’m just a klutz with these vicious pieces of paper.”

Still calm - definitely, completely calm - Phil rolled his chair away from his desk enough to rummage through his drawers. After a moment he pulled out his office first-aid kit and set it on the desk.

Wordlessly he held out his hand, and just as wordlessly Barton moved forward a few inches on the desk before placing his finger in Phil’s palm. Phil eyed the paper cut clinically. It had already stopped bleeding, but there were flecks of dried blood around it. His eyes drifted just for a second over the tiny, tiny slivers of cuts he could still see over Barton’s other fingers, and in memory all the ones he could not. 

He wasn’t sure what this was. Hence, the spreadsheet to try and figure it out. Was this kind of self-harm? A punishment whenever he missed a shot, or a SHIELD agent was KIA? But there was no rhyme or reason to it, no pattern that Phil could see that was related to his time at SHIELD. He was beginning to suspect it had something to do with Barton’s personal life, but even after three years working together, that remained largely a mystery to Phil. He knew where Barton lived, and what the door to his apartment looked like, but that was about it. He knew Barton could - at the very least - _make_ himself fuck men _or_ women, if an operation called for it. But he was rarely on missions like those, and Phil didn’t even know if there was a personal preference in there or if Barton was just that good at pretending. 

Barton’s breathing didn’t change as Phil swiped an antiseptic wipe over the cut, cleaning it and the blood from around it. Even though it wasn’t necessary, Phil dug out a purple bandaid - which were a joke present from Barton himself, so it wasn’t weird that he had them - and wrapped it neatly around Barton’s finger. When he was finished he glanced up, and- Oh. That was a mistake.

At some point Barton had leaned forward to watch him work, and now that Phil had looked up their faces were inches from each other. Phil could feel the warm ghost of Barton’s breath on his cheek. It smelled like peppermint. Barton was probably stealing candy canes from the SHIELD Christmas tree again.

“Thanks, boss,” Barton said.

Phil’s brain kicked into high gear. Carefully he backed away, under the pretense of putting the first-aid kit away. No awkward movements or starts, just simple efficiency and going about a task. Without looking up from the drawer, Phil ventured: “You know, this isn’t going to get you out of paperwork. I’ll take you off active duty if I have to, so all these don’t-“

Phil made the mistake of glancing up and was greeted by the most conflicted expression he’d ever seen on Barton’s face

“-interfere…” He tried to finish his sentence, but he could ignore Barton’s expression.  _Was_  this some sort of self-harm? Was he just  _missing_  something?

“Barton…” Phil tried. He cleared his throat. “Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Before that could register in Phil’s mind - and actually, it started to, a little, and Phil felt a spike of fear because those weren’t reassuring words coming from Barton, not in the least bit - Barton was leaning forward and tugging Phil’s chin up with his thumb and index finger, and pressing his lips sweetly to Phil’s own.

He pulled away after hardly half a second, long after Phil had registered the act, but long before he had figured out how to react to it. Barton’s eyes were big, his expression that of a pup wanting some attention but expecting to get kicked instead. 

Phil’s mind went into overdrive. Damage control. He couldn’t reject Barton: for one, Phil was interested in this happening, definitely interested, but was never willing to abuse his power over someone like Barton. _E_ _specially_  over someone like Barton, who probably would grin and bear it, thinking it was more than he deserved. For another, even if he  _wasn’t_  exactly interested, Barton was Barton: not trained to deal with rejection in the slightest bit and with enough abandonment issues to fill an orphanage.

No rejection. Phil had to make that clear, immediately.

“Fifty-nine,” he said.

A small sliver of a smile slid across Barton’s lips. “Huh?”

“It took you fifty-nine paper cuts to work up the courage to do this?” Phil tsked, still working hard to keep his tone light, his expression open and body language relaxed. “Hardly seems like behavior fitting of a Special Agent of SHIELD.”

Barton shrugged, expression sheepish instead of scared and expecting abuse. That was good. “Fifty-eight. The first one was real.”

“Fifty-eight, then,” Phil replied. And then he smiled, genuinely, because he didn’t have to  _worry_  anymore. Leave it to Barton to go about something in such an unexpected way that the process sent Phil into conniptions. 

Considering his options carefully, Phil finally rolled his chair forward a few inches. Barton’s eyes widened, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. Phil’s eyes caught on them for a moment before moving back up to Barton’s eyes. “We will talk about this,” he ordered. Barton nodded, looking not too disappointed. “But,” Phil continued, “I think you need to make up for fifty-eight failed mission attempts, first.”

And that was how the requisition form Phil had pulled up in his haste earlier actually was used, because Phil needed to requisition himself a new chair after Barton tackled both himself and the poor piece of office furniture to the ground. 


End file.
